When I Fall
by hopefulmemoir
Summary: England starts to feel depressed. France notices. Subtle-not-really-there-FrUK. Friendship France/England.
1. I Can See You Tremble

This story contains elements of depression.

I do not own any of the characters unless otherwise specified. This story is not for monetary gain.

Enjoy!

~o-o-o~

England wasn't sure what prompted it. He took to the idea, has for a long time that essentially everyone hated him, in one way or another. America loudly proclaimed often how England was an old man who couldn't cook, couldn't do anything. France too insulted England, his appearance, hobbies, interests, personality, anything and everything, really. Russia had something against England, always has, and he made sure England knew it by grinning creepily and ruining England's plans. Romano hated him too, he hated everybody and he was afraid of England.

Then there were the nations who were more subtle about it. Spain's crazed smile that never reached his eyes, dark intent bleeding through those green orbs, remembering the torment England put him through. Germany's nonchalant disposition, disinterest, and cold gaze. Canada was too polite to be openly disrespectful, but England saw the angry glances Canada thought he didn't see.

And maybe England deserved to be hated. He'd spread his web and tried to take everything, had betrayed many nations he promised alliances to, had forced his beliefs on them, manipulated them, took and took without ever giving back. The isolation had nearly driven him mad, once. He desperately sought companionship, found it in Japan, but even that didn't last.

Nothing did.

England let out a dejected sigh. He always blamed everyone else, but when he arrived to meetings and saw other nations interacting, smiling, chattering eagerly, he had doubts it was them, maybe it _was_ him, and he was atrociously dislikable. No, that couldn't be it. England was a fun guy. He liked…a lot of fun things.

Well, he thought they were fun.

This realization that the world, deep down, loathed him, took root, and like a stubborn disease it spread through England's mind, plaguing his thoughts with bleak tones and somber moods. He tried his best to push past it, he really did, but the solemn funk he found himself in wouldn't lift. It worsened. England started skipping meals. He slept more, but despite this he felt more knackered than usual. He declined outings and avoided contact with people outside of work. Each time England caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, a derisive sneer took his features, twisting his gaze to one of malice, directed wholly at the person gazing back at him.

His age didn't help either. He found himself reminded of his past abuses, the pain he's caused in the wake of his colonization. There was little he could do now, but back then he could have done better, should have, and how could he have been so foolish? The anger he felt ate away at his mind, consuming it, until he had nothing left but despair.

The meeting was called to a close, scheduled to be resumed tomorrow. England packed his things meticulously before briskly making his way to his hotel room. Upon arriving he locked the door, flicked the chain and gasped. He had a particularly nasty argument with India during the conference, something that was becoming more common as of late and made England more sullen. His heart thundered in his chest as he sank to the floor, hardly able to breathe. His body ached and his head throbbed. He was tired, so bloody tired. England glanced at his briefcase. He had work, but he had no motivation to do it, do anything. He sat for a long time, just breathing, trying to gather what few thoughts he had that weren't completely useless. England dragged himself to his feet and ambled to one of the beds. He tossed his briefcase on the bed before crossing the room to the toilet. Upon relieving himself he set to wash his hands.

He met his gaze in the mirror and paused his motions. Worthless was the first word that came to mind, followed by selfish, idiotic, disgusting, manipulative; England didn't realize he was saying the words out loud until he finished with _the world would have been better off without you_. He shut off the taps, breath caught in his throat. He was shaking, but the idea was already spreading, rooted and growing. England was out of the hotel not ten minutes later, on his way to the shadiest pub he could find.

Cheap alcohol always gave England the worst hangovers. Somehow he'd managed to amble back to the hotel in his drunken stupor, so completely trashed he needed the hotel staff to bring him to his room. He woke well before his alarm, still drunk, stomach doing flips to the pounding in his head. England rushed to the bathroom. He didn't bother with the toilet. He stripped as fast as his sluggish body would allow and stepped into the shower, where he unloaded his stomach. It was all liquid, England hadn't eaten anything since lunch yesterday, and his bile burned on the way up, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. It made him feel worse and he gagged for a few minutes.

England turned his head into the spray and opened his mouth, gulping down the warm water. He made himself sick and threw up again, most of what he swallowed, before repeating the process until he was able to keep it down. England washed quickly, haphazardly, before stepping out of the shower. He dried, brushed his teeth, dressed, and then headed downstairs. The breakfast was already open, to England's relief. He needed tea, desperately, and he needed carbs to soak up whatever alcohol was still in him before the meeting.

It came as no surprise when England saw Germany and Switzerland, already awake, seated at separate tables. Germany was reading a morning paper and Switzerland was writing, working probably. England declined to greet either of them. He got his tea, some toast, and settled in the shade with a paper of his own. England's stomach knotted after a few bites of food. He slowed his pace, staring at the paper but not really reading. He was dizzy, too tired to focus, and he didn't really have the desire to.

"Mon cher," England whacked his knee when he was addressed, and a startled squawk left him. England reared on France, who had a plate and coffee. He sat across from England. "You missed dinner."

"I was working."

"Oh? On what? Your drinking?" England sneered at France before returning his eyes to the paper. "You look terrible." France's tone was mocking. "Worse than usual." France continued to babble on, chastising England for all he was, maybe, England wasn't really listening, his mind was on _terrible_, a new word he could add to the list of his characteristics. He took another bite of his toast, but that did him in and England fled to the toilet, unloading his stomach contents and dry heaving for a few minutes. When he returned France's brow was furrowed. "How much did you drink last night? You're more responsible than that." England sat down, woozy. France looked at him, really looked, and any bemusement from his fellow nation's state vanished, replaced solely with concern. "Arthur," France spoke softly. "Are you…are you all right?"

"Fine. Just…had a touch too much to drink." England replied easily. He was white from throwing up, but the bags under his eyes and the thinness in his face could not be attributed to one night of bingeing.

"You've lost weight." France straightened. "Is there-"

"It's no cause for concern." England waved France off immediately. "Just a diet thing, it's a fad back home." England lied fluidly. France sat back in his chair, disbelief in his eyes. _Liar_. That was new too.

The conference was just under two weeks in length, consisting of five main meetings between all nations, followed by smaller clusters of two or three meetings fitted in wherever the nations could make time. England was prepared to speak during his allotted time. He had his notes, which he had reviewed countless times.

_It's not enough though, is it?_

Anything England produced was abject anyway, and as England stood, ready to speak, his doubts scratched at his mind like pestering mice trying to escape a cage. _I have nothing worthy to contribute._ England's mind repeated the phrase as he presented his notes, speaking clearly and formally, taking up just enough time where nations could ask questions at the end. They did, and England answered, before the meeting moved on.

When the conference came to a close England meticulously packed his things, intent on retreating to his room, when France approached.

"I'd like to discuss things with you, regarding some ideas you mentioned today." France stated.

"Supper?" England suggested. France nodded. "I'll meet you in the lobby at half past seven." France gave another nod and they parted ways. England arrived a few minutes early, surprised to see France already waiting. England let France pick the place. They were seated immediately, France had made a reservation, were given menus and offered water. They both asked for still. England flipped through the menu.

"Mon cher," England lowered the menu to meet France's gaze. "I…I must admit, I'm worried about you."

"You shouldn't be." England replied easily before he returned to browsing. The waitress returned. France ordered a bottle of wine for them to share.

"Look at me, Arthur." England frowned at the tone. France was uncharacteristically serious. "There is no new diet fad. Tell me what's going on." England sighed.

"A bit presumptuous are we?" England remarked. "You needn't concern yourself with my well-being, Francis. I'm _fine_." England insisted. The waitress returned with the wine. France confirmed the bottle and she let him taste before she poured them each a glass.

"Are we ready to order?" She asked.

"Non, we'll need a few more minutes." France replied. She gave a short nod and drifted away to check on her other tables. England closed the menu, deciding on lasagne. "And why shouldn't I concern myself? You're important to me." England's indifference wavered briefly. Confusion flashed through his eyes before he bristled and bit his tongue, returning to a mask of stoicism.

"Just lay off." England requested, allowing annoyance to seep into his tone. The waitress returned and they placed their orders, France ordered the salmon and England the lasagne. France did, much to England's relief, and their discussion moved to the topic of the meeting today, as well as other foreign relation policies and the like. It was surprisingly civil, considering it was the two of them. England declined dessert but ordered tea, France ordered some kind of tart with coffee.

"Have you hurt yourself?" England blinked and lifted his gaze.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've seen it before, mon cher. In others," France sat forward. "I don't know what's brought this downward spiral on, but you should know that-"

"Not another word." England interrupted. Though he spoke sharply his voice was low. France glanced away. There wasn't a chance England was going to admit to anything, and certainly not to his rival. _Coward_. That was new. England and France didn't speak much over dessert. When the waitress came England asked for the bill and refused to split with France when it did come. They left the restaurant before ten and started back towards the hotel.

"You are important to me, Angleterre." France repeated gently. England hummed. "No one-"

"Stop!" England snapped. He shook his head at France. "No, you don't, no one does, and no one should. Just…leave me be." England and France walked in silence; air awkward and palpable around them. They weren't far now; England breathed out in relief. He could escape to his room and wallow in self-loathing until dawn. The duo stepped onto the elevator, pressing the numbers of their respective floors and then the lift began its ascent. England had his eyes on the patterns in the walls, when the elevator stopped suddenly, jostling him. England blinked and glanced at France, who had pulled the stop lever. "What on earth are you doing?" England asked, irritated.

"Trapping you." France answered blandly. He squared England, arms crossed. "We're going to talk."

"No, we're not." England reached for the button to resume the lift but France stopped him. "This isn't funny, Francis." England tried. "I have work."

"It can wait. I'm worried about you." England threw his hands up and leaned back against the wall, eyes elsewhere. "I want to help."

"You can help by letting me return to my room."

"Non, you're unwell-"

"You want me to talk about my feelings?" England asked. "Do you know me at all?" France sighed. _Lies._ He was lying but England didn't want to deal with this. He didn't want to face what France was putting forward. "I'll get over this. Just leave me be."

"Stay with me tonight." France requested. "For my sake." England let out a soft groan.

"You're a bother." France smiled and hit the button so the lift resumed moving. France went with England to his room first, they picked up the items England needed for the night before they headed to France's hotel room.

~o-o-o~


	2. Don't Let Me Drown

This story contains elements of depression.

I do not own any of the characters unless otherwise specified. This story is not for monetary gain.

Enjoy!

~o-o-o~

There is something in the way England holds himself that drives France crazy. He has an air of arrogance about him, subtler than France, accompanied by a condescending gaze that pierces anyone he focuses on. There is nothing charming or gentlemanly about it, just purely patronizing, but in such a way that the individual receiving the look feels uncompelled to retaliate, choosing to ignore it instead (or in America's case remain oblivious). This only fed England's ego more, much to the chagrin of his colleagues. One exception to this was, of course, France. He always met England's eyes with a dashing smile, bemused more than anything by the idea that England thought he was better. This, naturally, irritated England, prompting aggression that drove both nations to callow bickering. France didn't care. He took it upon himself to be the one nation who stood up to England. For what it was worth, France had not known the reason behind England's resolve.

Every nation had their own way of dealing with haunting memories. France had always assumed England was too cocky to let past mistakes or failures dampen his mood. Instead, France learnt the opposite. England was crushed, drowning in harrowing memories that threatened to swallow him. He was on a downward spiral, that he so desperately sought to hide he masked himself in an unbecoming disposition of complacency.

It was by chance that France noticed England's self-loathing. They were having one of the quarterly conferences, hosted by Germany in Munich. It was the third day, and during the meeting England got into a rather heated argument with India. Towards the end, when everyone had had enough and people stepped in to stop it, India let slip a biting remark, blaming England in part for his many troubles. Had France not been focused on England, had he even blinked at the wrong time, he would have missed the brief slip in England's façade. He looked utterly drained, eyes unfocused and defeated. Concerned, France took it upon himself to find out what exactly was going on with his long-time rival.

His efforts yielded no results at first. England was stubborn at the best of times, adamant about remaining independent, which for him translated to isolation. France on more than one occasion had seen the nation scrawl motivational slogans that adorned posters during World War II. Direct confrontation proved useless, so France took to spying as an alternative. He was not particularly fond of subtlety but this case was dire. He was loathe to admit it but France would go to great lengths to help England.

Days turned to weeks and dragged to months before France finally caught a break. It was heart wrenching. England had disappeared into one of the toilets at the hotel when a break in the meeting was called. France slipped in, unnoticed. He watched, silent, awed by the shift in England's demeanour. His shoulders slouched and the stoic mask slid away, replaced by a despaired gaze that France hated, hated so much because no one should look that way. When England started talking, France's heart sank more at the hate he belittled himself with. He remained hunched over the sink for another five minutes before England splashed his face with water, straightened his posture and all the negativity was buried. England dried off with a paper towel before departing from the toilets.

Due to the nature and delicacy of the operation, France chose not to approach England directly again. Even if France had physical evidence of England's depression, England was far too stubborn to accept help anyway, so an alternate method was needed. France was a cunning man when he needed to be though. He started with offhanded comments, passive, fleeting remarks complimenting England in one way or another. Most of the time, England just rolled his eyes or insulted France in response, but France was attentive, and on more than one occasion England was trying to suppress a smile.

France went out of his way to involve England in excursions, ensuring the island nation could not wallow in his hotel room alone. When they parted ways between conferences France called or visited, it wasn't abnormal for the nation to do that, and though England was abrasive he never explicitly asked France to leave. Progress was slow, but it was happening. The tightness in England's posture relaxed some, his weight leveled off and the bags under his eyes faded. Eventually England became more receptive to France's presence, inviting the nation out occasionally.

They sat inside England's home, drinking wine, England was busy knitting and France was reading a book. It had been raining all day, was still raining now, but neither minded. They just sat together by the fire, enjoying the warmth and quiet comfort of each other's company. England straightened where he sat and his hands fell into his lap.

"How did you know?"

"About what, cher?"

"Don't play daft with me." England focused on France, green eyes shining. "How did you know?" He asked again, his voice shaking. France let a gentle smile grace his lips. He set his book aside and leaned in to kiss England's cheek.

"You're a difficult man to read," France replied gently, still leaned in close. His breath ghosted the other's skin, giving England chills. "Your mask slipped in a meeting. It was fleeting but I managed to catch a glimpse. No one should look that way and I knew I had to do something." France sat back to meet England's eyes. His chest clenched some when he saw tears, but England shook his head.

"I'm happy." England gasped. "I haven't been for so long but…I think sitting here, with you? All those things you did…you make me happy. I didn't want to get better. I thought…I deserved to feel this way because of everything I'd done but…that's no way to live. So…thank you, for showing me that. I'll try."

"It takes time." France whispered. England nodded and swallowed thickly. France brushed his thumb across England's cheek, wiping away the tears that fell. "Anything you need, you call, you write, I'll always be here for you." England nodded again. France set aside England's knitting and then tugged the island nation into his arms. They settled on the sofa, England's head nestled in the crook of France's neck. With some effort France carelessly draped a throw blanket over them and they drifted off to sleep.

~o-o-o~

_AN: Take this as a friendship or a relationship: it is ambiguous enough to go both ways. England may or may not be a bit OOC. Sorry about that._

_If you ever feel hopeless, lost, useless or any other negative feelings about yourself, don't be afraid to call or talk to someone. I know I have on more than one occasion, sometimes life does become too much. I urge you to speak to someone, be it a family member, friend, or anonymous stranger. If you want to talk to me, send me a message. Life is hard and it's more so when you feel alone._

_Depression is a serious illness and should not be taken lightly._

_HM_


End file.
